


The Ring of Thrór

by eichenschild



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:03:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eichenschild/pseuds/eichenschild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Second Age, King Durin III received a mysterious Ring to keep and hold on to. Thousands of years later, the Ring finds its last bearer in the mighty Dwarven King Thráin and it once again twists the fate of the Longbeards, bringing them power and wealth beyond imagination. This time however, there is a price to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The footsteps of padded boots echoed across the meadows on the far eastern border of Lothlórien. 

Rushed and snatchy footsteps, for the bearer of those iron-capped boots was staggering and zigzagging, tumbling over roots and broom. Every now and then, his clothes got caught on the low scrubland but he did not care, since his soft leather jerkin, as well as his coat and pants, were already badly torn and hanging from him in shreds. Blood covered his hands and face but it was not his own, though he wished it was.

His dark eyes roamed the grassland, searching desperately for something but before him lay nothing but the vast, dry lands of the Field of Celebrant, the long, stiff grass swaying lazily in a dull breeze that came from the South, bringing the first carriers of summer. 

Pollen burst into the air and danced around his head as he rushed through a field of dandelion and glimmered in the light of the settling sun above the Misty Mountains in the far West. He saw none of that beauty. A sight he could not forget had rooted in his head, a sight that had burned itself deep into his mind and poisoned it with every living hour and haunted him. A sight, that made him flee in fright and drove him to places unknown for he did not have a home anymore. 

He still saw it clear before him. 

The dark gate lingered far above their heads, towering over them like a deadly foe from ancient times. As he looked up, a shudder ran down his spine and his feet suddenly felt heavy as plumb. 

“This is folly, Thrór”, Nár muttered under his breath, glaring up at the lingering death that awaited them at the top of the stairs. 

Dimrill Dale lay quietly in his back, the distant gurgling of the waterfall crashing down into the beautifully glistening surface of the lake Mirrormere barely reached the ears of the two Dwarves, who stood at the foot of a large staircase, once carved into the stone by skilled hands. 

“There is no way on this earth, that we can reclaim those Mountains by ourselves. Let us return and gather an army big enough to drive the Orcs out”, he continued, looking up to his King and most trusted friend. 

“Can you see it, Nár? Can you feel it? The presence of Durin still lingers in this place”, Thrór replied dreamy, gazing up at the mountain. The King of Erebor had grown old, time gnawing on his face, his grey beard and the withered armour, forged from the finest metals and the glorious Mithril that still shone bright in the sunlight. 

“He once walked in this valley, right where we are standing”, the King seemed in a daze and Nár stepped a little closer, worried about his old companion.

“Let’s go home”, he said softly.

“Home?” Thrór finally turned to him, an unreadable expression on his face. “And where is that? Erebor is lost to us but this place. This place, right here, this is where we righteously belong!”

Thrór’s gaze fell on the mountain again and his eyes glistened feverish. 

“I am of Durin’s line”, he solemnly declared and Nár sighed quietly. “This is my homeland. Before us lie the Halls that Durin had built, I can no longer let Orcs savage them and linger in them, don’t you understand that, my friend?”

“I do”, Nár replied and once again eyed the large black gate. “I just don’t think we should be here alone. Please Thrór, for the love of Mahal, let us return to our kin and gather an army. Take your son with you, your grandsons even, fight side by side with them to reclaim this once glorious kingdom, but please do not enter on your own.”

“I have no choice”, the great King smiled and began to climb the stairs, his heavy armour clangouring with every step he made. 

Nár watched him for a while; his feet still tied firmly to the ground and he felt his knees trembling violently. “Thrór?” he quietly called out but was of course unheard. He did not dare to raise his voice, for nobody knew what really lingered in those deep chasms now. Nobody knew of the great terror that dwelled in the halls of Khazad-dûm. 

After a little while, he finally plucked up the courage to follow the King. Looking back over his shoulder, Nár watched the peaceful valley below as he ascended the stairs and wished to be somewhere else entirely. Being loyal to his beloved King, he would have followed Thrór anywhere and he hadn’t hesitated even for a second, when his old friend had asked him to come along on this quest, no matter how hopeless it was. But he had secretly and silently hoped, that Thrór might change his mind along the way.

He found Thrór by the gate, astonished and curious as a little child. The great East-gate to Moria stood ajar, the gap big enough for a Dwarf to squeeze through but the darkness that lingered behind it was all but inviting. A cold draft came from the depth of the Halls beyond, the scent of decay and murder carried out with it and Nár’s stomach turned. 

“This is a sign”, Thrór muttered. “A sign by Durin himself for us to finally reclaim what is ours.”

“We do not know what awaits us in there. Thrór, for the last time, please, we should not be here. Not now, not alone. Let us return”, Nár tried once again, his voice already pleading.

Thrór stared into the deep, never-ending black that lurked behind the gate, mesmerized and bewitched by some dark magic, Nár was sure of it.

“I must leave you now”, Thrór finally muttered and Nár stared at him, bewildered by his words. “This is my burden. My fate, my glory.”

The old King smiled and when he finally looked at his companion one more time, Nár saw the madness in his eyes, the quiet sickness that had begun to befall Thrór while he had still dwelled in Erebor. A sickness of the mind, so vile and pestilent, that nobody had ever found a cure for it. 

“Thrór, please! Can’t you hear me anymore? I am begging you, do not enter through this gate but come back home with me! Come home for your people, your son, please!” Nár’s voice trembled with fear and despair. 

“Wait here for me, my old friend. I shall return to you”, Thrór smiled. “But for now, farewell my dear Nár. Farewell and do not fear for me.”

Nár watched in terror as his King disappeared through the gate, swallowed by the darkness behind it. 

The days grew long and the nights dark and terrifying. The old Dwarf had settled at the foot of the stairs, hidden from sight and he waited. And waited, and waited. Nár never dared to make a fire for he feared the ever-watchful eyes in the dark, searching and haunting him in his sleep. He heard the whispers and screams in the night, witnessed the quiet killing and bloodshed around him, he heard them sniff and felt them scowl and he pulled his cloak tighter around his trembling body. And still he waited. 

It was a mild night, when the dark East-gate opened one more time. Crickets were chirping and Mirrormere lay quiet, except for the silent splashing of the waterfall that gushed down the Dimrill Stairs. Nár startled and peeked from his hiding spot. 

Up by the gate stood three Orcs. One of them was particularly large and his pale skin shone in the moonlight like millions of diamonds. The broad chests and shoulders covered a fourth creature and no matter how hard Nár tried to look, no matter how much he squeezed his eyes, he could not catch the cowering figure amidst those three abominations. A blade glistened in the white light and it wasn’t long until Nár heard the tearing of flesh and veins and the scrunching of bones. 

He watched bewildered and listened nauseated, not daring to make a sound or step from his hideout.

When the Orcs finally stepped aside, Nár’s heart stopped beating in his chest. The familiar armour glistened red, the blue cloak and the crest of the House of Durin were stained and torn, the white beard adust and not a muscle moved in the old, broken limbs anymore. 

They flung Thrór’s abused and shattered body down the stairs and Nár cried out in pain, when the severed head of his beloved King toppled down behind the corpus. Nothing could have held the pure soul back anymore and Nár broke away from his lair and rushed towards the stairs, not caring if he was seen or not. 

His hands trembled as he reached out for the defiled body of his King and tears were streaming down his face when he knelt beside the broken corpse, drawing white tracks on his dirt stained cheeks. 

“No”, he whispered under his breath, as he carefully picked up Thrór’s head. He cried out once again and nearly dropped the head like he had burned himself on it. Dwarvish runes were carved deeply into the King’s forehead, glistening red in the dim light. Thrór’s dead eyes stared up at Nár, as he read the name that had been scored into flesh and skin.

Heavy steps ripped the old Dwarf from his daze and when he looked up, he saw the white Orc towering above him. Agitated, he pressed the head of his King against his chest and stared up at the monster.

“Take my life!” he bellowed. “Take my life but make it quick and be done with it for I will no longer feel anything anymore!”

The Orc watched him curiously, a grim smirk tugging at the corner of his pale lips. 

“Your life is of no worth to me, beggar”, he snarled and tossed a small purse, made from dark leather, at the Dwarf by his feet. “Take this and run. Run as quick as your feet can carry you and deliver this message to your kin. Your King is slain. Moria is mine.”

Nár stared at the purse before him. He reached out for it with trembling fingers and it felt startlingly heavy when he lifted it from the ground, coins clinking inside. He carefully raised Thrór’s head up to his face and pressed a tender kiss to the bleeding forehead, before he gently put the head down again, neatly beside the torn body. 

As he got up to his feet, he clutched the purse close to his chest. 

“Run”, the white Orc growled one last time. 

While his feet thundered down on the green, soft grass that covered the banks of the Silverlode, he heard their voices in his back, the yelling and shouting and the horrible orders, the pale Orc bellowed across the valley. 

“Cut him up! Tear his flesh and feed it to the ravens until none is left of the great King under the Mountain!”

And he heard the cutting and slicing and he ran blinded by tears, staggering and crying beneath the silver light of the moon, wondering when Mahal had turned his back on his creation. 

The purse with the coins still jingled on his belt when he dashed through the high grass of the Riddermark, running as if the terrors of that night were after him like predators, hunting him into his grave. He had passed the Limlight and before him lay the vast fields of Rohan.

A child stood on top of a narrow hill, the fluff on its upper lip tickling its skin and it pulled a face and scratched the tip of its nose. Whether it was a boy or a girl was not recognizable, for the formerly pretty clothes hung down in rags and were stained and dirty, the fuzzy-head uncombed and unbraided and its face was covered in the dust of the Mark.

When it spotted the old Dwarf in the distance, it blinked irritated and then turned on its heel.

“Mama!” the thin voice echoed across the grass. “Mama! There’s someone coming!”

It stirred up a small company of travellers and they all craned their necks to spot the intruder, leaving their daily business be for the moment. All of them looked rugged and shabby and their small, sturdy frames clearly gave them away as Dwarves. 

Before Nár reached the camp, fatigue and heartache overcame him and he collapsed, his body slumping into the long grass and disappearing entirely. Finally the nightmares had taken their toll on him. Finally the gruesome images that had burned themselves deep into his memory had defeated him. And the old Dwarf lay in the swaying grass of the Riddermark and his last thoughts went out to his King and Commander before everything turned black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, lads and lasses, to another, hopefully long and exciting adventure. It’s my second large fanfiction project and I dearly do hope that you will enjoy it. This time though, we will travel a little earlier in time :)
> 
> One major change that is planned for this story, compared to what I did for ‘Men-i-Naugrim’: I will not update daily but only once a week. Main reason is that daily updates were a lot of pressure and I lack the time to keep that schedule up. BUT in return, the Chapters of ‘The Ring of Thrór’ will be twice as long. I hope that makes up for it. Uploads will hopefully be every Sunday unless my muses abandon me or I don’t find the time. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy the Chapter and remember: I love Kudos and Reviews and Messages and such so don't hesitate to get in touch ;)

The Limlight lazily gushed through the tall grass, it’s banks covered with pebbles and sand. To the far West, the treetops of Fangorn swayed in the mild spring breeze and the morning sun slowly warmed the dry earth and lured all kinds of small animals from their lairs. On a particularly large stone by the river, a lizard had gotten comfortable, enjoying the first warm sunrays of the day. It stirred and scurried off when footsteps sounded dull across the banks. Leather boots crunched on the pebbles and a heavy basket was dropped on the shore. More footsteps approached and the smell of soap and fabric filled the air.

“Alright lasses, let’s get those rags clean again! We don’t want our men smelling of Orcs now, do we?” a clear, beautiful voice echoed across the banks. 

It belonged to a young Dwarven woman, merely thirty years old, thus almost still a child and fresh and mesmerizing as the spring. She wore her black hair in a long, artistically entwined braid that reached down to heir hips and the black fluff that covered her jawbones was neatly trimmed and combed. She tucked up the sleeves of her white blouse and bound an apron around her curvy waist, digging her hands deep into the basket by her feet. 

Busy fingers drenched fabric and tatter in the clear waters of the Limlight, scrubbed them up with soap again and again until the white foam had turned black and then cleaned it off in the flowing waters once again. There was a lively chatter amongst the women, they joked and laughed and sang merry songs of old. 

“Day in and day out”, an old woman muttered under her breath, as she drowned shirts and jerkins in the flowing stream. “The same routine, day in and day out.”

“What? Am I hearing you complain?” the girl smiled, her arms dipped into the cold water up to her elbows but she did not flinch or cry while the frostiness of the Limlight pricked at her tanned skin with millions of little pincers. “Shouldn’t you be used to this, having a husband and five sons?”

“You just wait, my little princess. You just wait”, the old woman mumbled. “One day you will have a husband and children of your own, Dís and then I want to see you smile again.” 

The girl laughed wholeheartedly and the merry sound filled the hearts of the women around her. Their song grew even more cheerful and it was carried off with the wind and swayed to the camps that lay scattered across the northern border of the Riddermark. 

Smoke rose high in the air from countless campfires. The Mark was buzzing with the small, sturdy frames of Dwarves as they all bustled about. They were too many to be counted, young and old, men and women, warriors, merchants, miners, toymakers, forgers, tailors, beggars and carousers. Children ran amongst the camps, yelling and shouting, crying and singing whilst the old ones went about their daily business, creating and crafting. The scent of stew and bannock lingered above the grassland, mixed with sweet pipe weed and glowing coal and hot and strong grog boiled in black iron kettles above the fires.

Wooden carts were loaded to the brim with fine goods, whittled from wood, braided with the long, green grass of the Mark or carved from rock and stone. Beautiful dresses made from linen and velvet, thick leather jerkins and long coats, garnished with golden embroidery and mighty collars made from the finest fur. Caskets with glorious jewels were stacked upon another, the diamonds glistening in the early morning sun. 

There was a lively chatter amongst the Dwarves, whilst they pondered about prices and the quality of their makings and bade each other farewell and wished a wonderful day. Fluffy Highland Cattle was yoked to the carts, one ox on each and their breath puffed in small clouds before their nostrils in the chilly air of the morning. 

“Wait!” a voice yelled across the camp. 

Two Dwarves stood by one of the carts; one older than the other and their navy blue cloaks gave them away as royalty or members of a line of fierce warriors. They were in fact brothers, though one might not have guessed, for one of them, the older one, was rather small and chubby, the first light streaks of grey already weaved into his thick, auburn beard, though his eyes gleamed and watched heedful. The other one was large and bulky, the dark beard untrimmed and his wiry mane stood from his head in a Mohawk. The back of his right hand was covered in black tattoos and he looked grim, the blue eyes glistening underneath thick brows. He had just put the reins on a particularly big ox, a sturdy animal that could barely see anything, for it’s eyes were covered by a thick fringe of light, matted fur, when the voice echoed behind them.

Both brothers turned around to find a young lad running towards them. He was only a few years younger than them but still looked like a child amongst the Dwarves, for merely a black, braided moustache and a goatee grew on his tanned face and his cheeks and nose were covered in the freckles of youth. 

When he arrived at the cart, he looked around, panting heavily and then suddenly dropped his shoulders as disappointment spread across his gentle, young features. 

“I thought he was gonna go with you”, he exclaimed, still panting a little. “Didn’t he say he was gonna go with you last night, Dwalin?”

The bulky Dwarf scratched the back of his head and dust and dirt trickled down onto the thick fur collar of his jerkin. “He did”, he replied, his voice dark as thunder, rolling from the depth of his massive body. “But when we came to check on him this morning, he was already gone. Took his hammer and everything.”

“He went alone?” the youngster asked, his eyes big as saucers. 

“Suppose he needed a little time to think”, Dwalin shrugged. “’Tis been four days now, he still quite hasn’t got is head around it. Don’t ya worry ‘bout him. He’ll by travelling at the banks of the Anduin, he’s gonna find his way.”

“Did your father speak to anyone?” Dwalin’s older brother Balin quietly asked, concern drawn on his friendly features. 

“Not a word”, the young Dwarf sighed. “He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t speak. He just sits there all day, staring at this map. I don’t know what to make of it anymore.”

“He will come around, don’t worry laddie”, the older Dwarf smiled, patting the youngster on the back. “Come on then, we’ll take you along. If we hurry, we might reach the Eastfold by sunrise tomorrow.”

The boy smiled and nodded, climbing swiftly on the cart and made himself comfortable on a sack of linen cloaks. Dwalin settled down on the wooden frame, the reins of the ox in his large hands while Balin seated himself on a box filled with clay jars full of the finest Dwarvish ale. The cart smelled of herbs and spices and the prickly scent of alcohol and the youngster peered at the boxes and flasks, wondering if they might take a sip every now and then. 

They set off in the early hours of the morning, a small caravan of carts and wheelbarrows and some Dwarves carried their goods in large sacks on their backs and wandered on foot. 

The cart of the young Dwarves scuttled across the uneven ground of the Riddermark, promising a bumpy ride. The flasks and bottles and jars clattered silently and the stout ox snorted every now and then, as he ploughed his way through the tall grass. The sun rose higher above the Misty Mountains and the air became warmer and warmer, the further the day commenced. The youngster shrugged the chill of the morning off his shoulders and gazed at the glistening waters of the Anduin to their left as they travelled south towards the old city of Aldburg. 

The Men of Rohan had welcomed them when they arrived months ago, after travelling across Dunland for so many years. The Rohirrim offered them trade and shelter and the Dwarves had quickly settled in the endless seas of grass. They had begun to craft and forge again and every now and then, they ventured out into the larger cities of the South to sell their goods and exchange them for everything they needed on a daily basis. Shortly after their arrival, their old King Thrór himself had travelled to Edoras to pledge his allegiance to Fréaláf Hildeson and his son Brytta. The old King of Rohan had invited the exiled Dwarves to linger in his lands for as long as they pleased but Thrór, naturally wary of the big folks, had forbidden his kin to travel to Edoras since that day, for he did not want to cause an upheaval or stir any bad feelings amongst the royal horselords, caused by ill-mannered and noisy Dwarves. 

Now Thrór wasn’t amongst them anymore. Only four days before the young Dwarf had climbed on the cart with Balin and Dwalin, Nár had awoken from his unconsciousness and told his story. The Dwarves had grieved for three days but could not allow themselves any more sadness than this. Homeless and poor, they had been forced to live on, to work and to travel and find new places to set camp every now and then, when the soil below their feet had been trampled too badly and they left bald spots in the high grasslands. They remembered Thrór’s words after all and tried not to cause any upheaval.

The youngster on the cart, watching the river and listening to the chirping and singing of the wrens that lived in the low broom of the mark, was Thrór’s grandson Frerin, a beautiful boy of not even forty years of age. His features were surprisingly gentle and fair for a Dwarf and he looked very much like his mother, who had died on the childbed after the birth of Frerin’s beloved sister. His eyes were of light grey like the first smoke from a fire, his black hair soft and wavy and held by a large silver barrette at the back of his head. 

“He lied to me”, Frerin muttered under his breath, while he curiously opened various boxes and pouches in search for a little something to eat or to drink, while the cart trundled across the grassland. “He said he would take me along today and then he left without me.” 

Neither Dwalin, nor Balin were sure if the young prince was earnestly complaining for he still seemed way too chipper, so they both shrugged it off as the nonsense babbling of a yob.

“We’re keeping his promise for him”, Balin smiled. “Don’t hold a grudge.”

“Nah”, Frerin waved Balin’s worries away, thus demonstrating that he hadn’t been too fazed in the first place. He nicked a handful of pickled pearl onions from a small barrel while Balin wasn’t looking and quickly hid them behind his back, an innocent smile on his lips. They rumbled on and every time the older Dwarf gazed somewhere else, Frerin would stuff one in his mouth and swallow it whole. 

The day went on and the sun travelled with them, shining upon the vast grasslands and slowly moved across the Anduin, towards the Orocarni in the far east. The caravan settled at midday, they made fires and roasted rabbits and pheasants before they packed up again to journey onwards. Songs and stories kept them in a cheerful mood and they all laughed and some danced along. Nobody would have believed the hardships they had suffered through. The young prince on his cart, singing and stomping his feet and clapping merrily, impressed them the most, for not only had he witnessed dragon fire and the end of his home; he had also just lost his beloved grandfather. And still he stood amongst them and sang with a voice of velvet and gold and he beamed and smiled. 

Frerin, to the people of Durin’s folk, was a cheerful vessel of joy ever since the day he was born. He was well known amongst the innkeepers and workers of Erebor for he had regularly snuck away from the Royal Halls to come and drink with the miners and simple folk. He was generous and easily entertained and by some form of magic or charm, nobody really knew for sure, he made everyone in his company feel loved and cared for. It was a rare gift amongst the usually gloomy Dwarves of Durin’s line, thus Frerin was popular with his people. 

The carts rumbled into the sunset and when nightfall came, Frerin shifted on his cart to let the two youngest children travelling with the caravan hop on and they fell asleep, leaning against the young prince, listening to him humming quietly, as he gazed up to the stars. 

Aldburg awoke at sunrise and the narrow streets soon bustled with life. The market criers began to set up their booths, the scent of fresh bread wafted along the streets and squares, a rooster crowed and amidst it sounded the splashing and gurgling of a beautiful fountain at the centre of the market. The mayor wandered about the streets, greeting the people and helping here and there. He listened up when the distant rumble of the Dwarven carts echoed across the lowly hills the city had been built upon and he watched as some people hurried to the city gates to welcome the traders and travellers. The caravan rolled through the streets of Aldburg, the Dwarven youngsters soon joined children running with the carts and as they reached the large market, the Dwarves began to unload their goods, humming and whistling in the morning sun.

Frerin soon said goodbye to Dwalin and Balin and scurried off, leaving the two to their trade, for even though they were both born into a family of great warriors and were by no means merchants, the exiled Dwarves of Erebor had learned the hard way, that they had to muck in wherever possible during these difficult times.   
Unfortunately, Dwalin soon proved to be the worst merchant under the sun for he mistrusted the big folk and his grumpy mood easily scared the People of Rohan off, thus Balin kept him well in the back and occasionally asked him to stock up the goods or fetch something to eat and to drink. Frerin usually enjoyed watching the spectacle, laughing at the poor moody Dwalin and earning himself a smack around the head every now and then, but this day he had joined them for a completely different purpose.

He wandered through the busy city streets, watching the big folk carry on their daily business and quietly smiled to himself. Visiting the cities of Men always turned out a mighty big adventure for the young prince, for nobody here knew who he was. Frerin walked as a commoner, forced to dodge long arms and hands and anything they carried, for people rarely saw the small Dwarf wandering amongst them and sometimes stepped on him. He knew well that most of his kin hated it and therefore avoided places with many big people, but Frerin found joy in it and looked at the world from a different angle.

“Excuse me”, he bowed to a woman, carrying a large sack with potatoes. “Would you be so kind to tell me where I can find the blacksmith in this town?”

She eyed him for a moment, seemingly bewildered for the people of Aldburg had gotten used to Dwarves on their market but not on their streets. When the young Dwarf bowed before her however, a gesture not common to happen to a mere farmer’s wife like her, she smiled and chuckled a little. 

“Just down this road and to the left and you will hear the sound of the anvil, my lord”, she replied, shifting the heavy sack hanging down her back a little. “Do you need your weapons sharpened?”

“Oh no, I’m merely looking for someone. Thank you and have a wonderful day, dear lady!” Frerin exclaimed, a charming smile spread across his not so bearded features and he wandered on. 

The lady had been right. He soon heard the clangour of a hammer upon an anvil and his feet carried him a little quicker, though he still carefully dodged the flying arms of the big folk and made sure not to step on anybody’s toes. ‘Do not cause an upheaval’, he reminded himself of the words of his deceased grandfather, though he wasn’t sure what an upheaval even consisted of. He zigzagged through the streets and soon the smell of fire and burning metal hung in his nose and the pounding grew louder. He saw the smoke rising from the forge and a bright smile spread across his face, when he finally found the one he had been looking for. 

By the anvil stood a Dwarf, older than Frerin but still young amongst his kin. His black hair clung to the sweaty skin of his face, he looked grim, the blue eyes burning, fixed on the anvil before him and he brought a heavy hammer down on the glowing iron with a force, that even scared some of the men around him away. The clangour was deafening but the young prince did not worry, as he slowly crept up on the older one and curiously peered over his shoulder. 

“What are you making?” he asked casually, causing the other one to jump and nearly hurl the hammer at him. 

“For crying out loud, Frerin!” the older Dwarf cursed, brushing a strand of hair from his face while regaining his composure. “I told you not to sneak up on me like that! Just you wait, one day I will smash that hammer into your face.”

“Hm”, Frerin grinned and sat himself down on one of the closed water barrels by the furnace. “I promise I won’t do it anymore, once that day has come. But honestly now, are you actually making anything or is this just you venturing out your frustration?”

“What frustration?” the other one asked innocently, taking a sip from a flask of wine. 

“The frustration that you have been carrying everywhere with you, since grandfather died?” Frerin raised his eyebrows and he shook his head a little, when the other Dwarf turned his back on him, a gloomy look on his face.

The Dwarf bashing the metal so fiercely that sparks flew from it in a glistening rain, was no other than the young prince Thorin, Frerin’s older brother and, since Thrór’s sudden death, the next heir to the Throne of Erebor. He would have been beautiful amongst his kin, very much like his brother, hadn’t it been for the foul mood and the never-ending grief that had carved deep, sorrowed wrinkles into his fair face already. His mane was black and thick like Frerin’s, held back with the same silver barrette but unlike his brother, he already sported a prominent beard, braided carefully and clasped with two silver clips. He was wearing a plain, blue linen shirt, the sleeves tucked up and the crest of the House of Durin was graved into the silver buckle of his belt, proving him to be royalty. 

“Has adad spoken to you?” Thorin asked after a while, his gaze fixed on the metal glistening red upon the dark anvil.

“No”, Frerin sighed, wondering why everyone kept asking him the same question over and over. “He still hasn’t spoken to anyone and he hasn’t eaten. I believe Dís will soon force something down him, she’s worried sick.”

“Not like her to show it”, Thorin muttered.

“I never said she shows it”, Frerin smirked. “You still haven’t answered my question though.” His boots silently drummed against the barrel. “Are you actually making anything?”

“I actually am”, Thorin chuntered, bringing the hammer down on the anvil once more. “I’m making money. You should try it some time, it might actually help our people.” 

The bitterness in his voice made Frerin churn a little. He was well aware that the carefree days were long gone and nobody needed to tell him that, for the Dwarves were no more but exiled wanderers, travelling across the lands since twenty years already. But still he remembered the glorious days in Erebor, when they had lived in wealth and merriment and Thorin had been kind and loving in those days, protecting his younger siblings and it had been easy to playfully infect him with many childish manners and to talk him into games and pranks and the lot. 

He watched his brother for a while, remaining awfully quiet and while he tried to sort out his inner turmoil, a man approached the forge and he carried a bundle with what looked like at least a dozen knives and daggers. 

“I believe you are the Dwarven blacksmith they speak about in this town?” he began without an introduction and Frerin saw the exasperation in his brother’s eyes, as Thorin looked up to the man.

“I believe I am”, he replied, his voice dark and blunt and so unlike the lovely sound that had once come from his lips when he sang songs to his siblings or told stories of treasures and trolls. “How may I help?”

“I need these sharpened”, the man replied, putting the bundle down by the anvil. Thorin eyed the blades for a moment, before he nodded faintly. 

“You can pick them up in the evening. They will be ready by then”, he muttered and it broke Frerin’s heart to see his brother like this. They were kings and princes and no forgers or blacksmiths. For a moment, he pondered whether it would be wise to remind the man of the royal heritage of the Dwarf he was talking to, believing that he should at least bow before them, but he kept his mouth shut. Ever since their home had been invaded, there were no princes amongst them anymore. Only merchants, makers, miners and paupers. 

After they had agreed on a price and the man had left, Frerin looked around, searching for something to occupy himself with. It was then that he noticed a bag lying with Thorin’s tools and he raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.

“You brought it with you?” he asked confused and it took Thorin a moment to figure out what his brother was talking about. When he glanced at the bag, he merely shrugged.

“I was sure you would forget it. And you did, it seems”, he replied and ignored the miffed glare of his younger brother. Frerin hopped off the barrel and picked up the bag. It was filled to the brim with thick logs of wood, probably forty or more. Frerin sighed quietly. 

“Can’t help it, can I?” he wondered quietly. “Can I sit with you then? I don’t want to be on my own.”

The hammer halted in mid-air and when it slowly sunk down on the anvil, Thorin had the most pained expression on his face. So bad, that Frerin believed for a moment that he had said something terribly wrong. Over the past years and especially since the disappearance of Thrór, the once loving relationship between the brothers had suffered badly, for Thorin changed with every wandering day. He had soon adopted the bitterness of their grandfather and it became harder and harder to cheer him up, until Frerin had begun to feel like a nuisance to Thorin, always pestering him and trying to make him laugh when he clearly did not want to. 

He was thus close to revoke his question, ready to apologise, when his brother gently put a large, heavy hand on his head and ruffled the wavy hair up until it stood from his head like a cockscomb. 

“You shouldn’t even have to ask me that”, Thorin mumbled, turning back to his work.

A smile spread on Frerin’s lips and he returned to his barrel, pulling a beautiful carving knife from his belt. It was one of the first blades that Thorin had made when he was young and he had given it to Frerin as a present one day. 

“Thought I better do”, he exclaimed innocently, getting comfortable on the barrel before he picked a log from the bag and began to whittle away. “Before you beat me up again.”

“Again?” Thorin paused, staring at his brother in disbelief. “Accuse me of beating you up once more, titch, and I will beat you up for real.” Frerin’s bright laughter rang across the streets like the beautiful sound of a big bronze bell and even Thorin smiled under his beard. 

The brothers returned to the other Dwarves way after nightfall, wandering through the streets of Aldburg in a slow, comfortable pace. Everything on their bodies hurt. Their feet and legs from standing all day, their heads from the constant clangour and chatter, their arms from the many hours of work and their hands were calloused and bleeding, but at least did not hurt anymore for they had gone numb altogether. Yet both seemed somewhat merry and they talked quietly, looking at the large doors and windows, challenging each other to reach up to the thatched roofs without standing on tiptoes. Neither of them managed.

The market was ablaze with a large bonfire, the Dwarves happily sitting around it, chatting, drinking and singing. Many residents of Aldburg had joined their little feast and Dwarves and Men sat side by side, telling stories to another and drinking to friendships and comradeship. Amongst them were Balin and Dwalin, both holding large pints of ale. They greeted the princes, offered them drink and food and soon the hard labour was forgotten. No man knew that the future Kings of Erebor were sitting and drinking with them and nobody needed to know. Frerin told stories and sang while Dwalin played the fiddle and Dwarven men and women danced around the bonfire and celebrated late into the night.

By sunrise the carts were loaded with traded goods again, bags of potatoes and grains, cages with hens and rabbits, boxes with vegetables and rolls of linen, satin and velvet. The small sturdy oxen once again snorted in the morning air and the Dwarves bid their goodbyes to the few men and women that were up already or had not even gone to bed yet. The rumbling of the carts echoed once again through the narrow streets but this time, their beloved ones awaited the Dwarves as they journeyed out into the grassland again to return to the nothingness that was their home. Thorin and Frerin travelled together with Dwalin and Balin again and soon Frerin had fallen fast asleep, cuddled up by Thorin’s side.

Many miles and hours away at the border of the Riddermark, the Dwarven camps slowly came to life, one after the other. Fires were lit, water was boiled and the strong smell of tea soon wafted across the trampled ground and in between, the many makeshift beds were soon packed away again to make place for deficient forges and looms. Dís stood by a fire, gently stirring a pot with strong black tea, enriched with the finest grog the Dwarves of Middle Earth brew. She had only been a child when Smaug had taken her home from her. A small girl of merely ten years, yet she remembered the dragon fire and the many screams and shouts and she remembered the strong arms of her father, lifting her up and carrying her through the secret passage to the Western door of the Lonely Mountain. She had cried for her brothers, tried to run back into the City for she had feared that Thorin and Frerin would burn alive if nobody helped them but her father held onto her tight and he smiled at her, his beard singed and his face black from the smoke. 

“Don’t cry, cricket. Don’t cry. They’ll be alright, you’ll see. We’ll all be alright.”

She filled a mug with the strong drink and clasped her cold fingers around it, enjoying the heat and steam that radiated from it for a moment. Though spring approached, the air was chilly in the morning and the young Dwarven lass wrapped a thick, woollen cloak around her shoulders. As she wandered across the camp, she was greeted by many voices and smiled, nodding politely and occasionally stopping for a little chat. She took a small sip from the mug to warm herself up and continued on her way, zigzagging through the camps and past the many campfires burning bright in the rising sun. She found him at the far end of the camp, staring into nothing, while his fingers played with a thick ring, made from beautiful silver and white gold with a glistening amethyst set in the centre. 

Since many years the Dwarves of Durin’s line had forgotten where the ring had come from, but it had been a family heirloom for centuries. It had not been forged by Dwarves, that much they knew but the history of the ring was long forgotten and of no importance, for as long as a jewel was well crafted, it was precious to the Longbeards. When he head steps approaching, he quickly stuffed the ring into the pocket of his velvet jerkin.

“Adad?” her voice was gentle as a small forest river and yet he flinched a little, for he knew that even the calmest stream could turn into a gushing maelstrom. 

He gazed to his side when she stepped up next to him, the steaming mug still in her cold hands. She eyed him for a moment, concern glistening in her blue, beautiful eyes. Over the past days, the great King Thráin had aged it seemed. The grey, thick streaks in his wiry, dark beard had grown a little wider, the silver clasps that held together braids and strands had already started to tarnish and the many worry lines were difficult to tell apart from the black runes that were tattooed on his forehead and temples, drawing the outlines of the crown he would never wear. When she offered him the mug, he hesitated.

“Please?”

Since the news of his father’s death had reached them, Thráin had retired from the busy life, not speaking a word, not eating, not drinking, not sleeping. He had sat by himself, day and night, brooding over the ring and the map his father had left behind and even though he knew that he worried his children, he could not change it. And even now, when he looked into his daughter’s eyes and saw the desperation in them, he could not help himself. His gaze wandered out to the horizon again, his mind dragged off to dark, deep places that Dís could not know about and he believed her to give up on her attempts sooner or later, like she had always done in the past days. 

Dís waited and waited a little while longer, before she suddenly grabbed his hand and shoved the mug into his cold fingers, spilling the hot drink and burning his skin but she did not care and he tried hard, not to hiss. She did not say a word but glared at him, hurt and anger burning in her eyes and both of them knew that no word could have hurt him more. One single gaze said enough. ‘Have it your way!’, ‘Fine, go on! Starve yourself!’, ‘I don’t care anymore!’. She spun around, her long, black braid flying and stomped off, leaving her father behind.

It was a curious thing, the stubbornness of Dwarves. One was as hot headed as the other and this pig-headedness seemed to run especially in the Line of Durin, for every King, Prince and Princess had a remarkable stamina and the patience to sit trouble out until things went their way again. Dís however seemed most talented in this and it was only a matter of time until she would have forced her father into giving in. Still anger had taken the better of her and she dashed through the camp, this time ignoring various greetings and she did not halt until she had reached the shores of the Limlight again, cursing and kicking pebbles into the flowing stream. 

“Guess he still won’t talk then”, a voice suddenly sounded behind her, deep and rolling and the young lass sighed and merely shook her head. 

A massive Dwarf approached her, taller than most and stoutly built. His thick, grey beard was braided into his once auburn hair, entwined with beads and golden clasps that shimmered in the morning sun, giving him away as nobility of some sort. He wore thick metal cuffs and a large, heavy belt and his shoes were made from iron and leather. The tanned skin of his face was heavily scarred and everyone who first laid eyes upon him knew that he was an experienced warrior, hardened by many battles. 

“Not a word. The others are starting to worry. They are becoming more and more uneasy with each passing day and yet he refuses to acknowledge his position”, Dís sighed. 

“Hm”, the old warrior smiled benignly. “’Tis a great position after all. He’ll come around, have a little faith, lass.”

The large Dwarf was no other than Fundin, Thráin’s closest friend and one of the best fighters amongst the Longbeards. He was the father of Dwalin and Balin and at least one of his sons had inherited a lot from him, be it the grim face and the deep, thundering voice to say the least. 

“Give him another day or two, I’m sure he’s not simply brooding like that. Wouldn’t be like your father to do that”, he gently clasped her shoulder and it was a good thing that Dwarven women were sturdy, for even a gentle grip from a warrior like Fundin could easily break some fragile bones. 

“I know. I’m merely worried, that’s all. And Thorin isn’t exactly helping either.”

“Nah he’s not”, Fundin chuckled, drawing a small smile on Dís’ lips. “’Tis a curious thing with those lads, sulking and pondering. Just lookin’ at’em gets tiresome-“

The distant rattling of wheels cut him off and when they gazed south, they noticed the faint silhouettes of the many carts that returned from Aldburg, bringing new provisions. 

“Speaking of brooding Dwarves”, the old warrior smiled. “Maybe it would be wiser to try and kick your brother’s rear, instead of your father’s. Hasn’t gotten so numb from all that mindless sittin’ around yet.” 

The young Dwarven lass laughed when Fundin winked at her and together they strolled on to greet the merchants and travellers trundling towards them. It was another day in exile, another day without a home. In the life of a Dwarf, twenty years were not a long time and the wounds were still fresh and often split open again whenever something reminded them of their fate and yet they had grown accustomed to it, waiting patiently for the day when something would change. For they needed a change desperately, they needed new hope. Hope that Thrór, though great he had been in his days, had never given them. It was a task that now Thráin was burdened with, torn between grief for his father and responsibility for his people and he sat by himself, pondering and clenching his jaws in frustration and it was a strange feeling that dwelled up inside him. A burning heat, a fire so fierce and fuelled by wrath and the deep, fell wish for revenge on the ones that had not only taken his father from him but had blemished the honour of his kin. And he sat day and night, quiet and patient and waited while he plotted a gruesome, cruel plan in frightening silence.


End file.
